


House of the Dead

by RainySpringDays



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, Old Kingdom - Garth Nix, Supernatural
Genre: All the Graveyards, Bad Dursleys, Harry is not Heir Potter, Indian Harry Potter, Jack the Ripper DLC, Multi, Pre-Hogwarts, Reapers, Slytherin Petunia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-14 16:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17512004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainySpringDays/pseuds/RainySpringDays
Summary: When Harry is abandoned on the doorstep of #4, Petunia is more calculating and clever about the arrangement. Magic protection is obviously not what its cracked up to be, after all it didn't save Lily. Besides all the note says is that It must be housed with a blood relation. No one said they had to be alive.





	1. Chapter: Viciousness thy name is Housewife

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on Fanfiction.com under my username WhiteDogWood

Viciousness they name is Housewife.

Petunia Dursley nee Evans, was the picture of the perfect housewife, mother, and middle class socialite. She made sure that her family was impeccably dressed and well presented as the model English middle class. She hosted tea on Tuesday, attended the weekly local ladies book club, visibly worked with the charity groups, and strived to have the most perfect English garden in the neighborhood. She dotted every **i** and crossed every **t**. She ferreted out the best gossip and set herself up as the one to go to as in the know. She found every loophole and brutally exploited it, and balanced her checks and shopped like a pro for the best at the cheapest. Stayed at the head of the latest fashions and trends while retaining class and modeling prudence from season to season by skillfully altering her closest in addition to her few seasonal spurges. Thrift and ingenuity was attractive in moderation after all, and looked upon by the matrons of Surrey with commendation. 

  She had mastered the art of subtle barbs that were twisted into sincere compliments and innocuous statements that left the receiver feel that they’d been found lacking in comparison. Petunia would have made a more cut-throat business women then her own husband, were it not for her traditional views of the female role in the family, which to her meant increasing social standing to the highest possible per the salary her man brought home. In other words she embraced and perfected the level of viciousness that could only be reached by the mortals know as Housewives.

So when her nephew was so abruptly, and rudely dropped on the doorstep that early November morn with only a letter informing that her perfect, freak of a sister was dead, and that for her family’s (because whoever left the child there had endangered them for as long as the child stayed with them, simply because he WAS there) and the newly orphaned boy’s protection, he must reside under the same roof as blood family. Of course Petunia was doubtful about the promised ‘protections’, her mind whispering that ‘magic hadn’t kept Lily form dying in her own home now had it’. But it was because of the allusions to protection and a promise of an allowance for his care that she humored letting the devil spawn in. She had no intent to keep it, and there were plenty of places she could put it out of the way. The Basic care to keep it alive would reap her benefits, but she wouldn’t care of it, wouldn’t love it like he Duddykins. Why should she? Just keeping it under blood’s roof was what they asked of her, so she saw no need to do an inch more.

 


	2. Chapter 2: Growing up or the Benefits of having a wizarding childe

 

Petunia supposed there were a few benefits to housing a wizarding childe. The plants always bloomed first and lasted the longest during their season, never wilting even on the hottest of days. The paint on and in the house never chipped or faded, dust was lighter than it should be, food kept longer and was more tasteful, mold vanished and continued to refuse to grow no matter how wet the weather got, and the air in the house always smelt fresh. Not to mention as the Boy grew older she gained an extra set of hands to set right the house every day.

Of course there were plenty of drawbacks as well. The weeds grew more viciously, the fences apparently didn’t have the same protection on its paint, emotional distress of any kind lead to Incidences, and of course the ladies of the neighborhood gossiped. Oh she had made clear that the boy had ‘health’ problems and was likely to be a tad touched in the head as he grew up, a result she told the best gossip, that was guaranteed due to the mental and physical trauma of the accident that killed his parents. She toyed with the idea of spreading around that his parents were a pair of drunk wastrels who died in a car crash, but eventually settled on a slightly edited version of the truth that would reflect better on herself and her family. Her dear sister, Lily had been a promising medical student who married her school sweetheart right out of school so in love they had been. Her husband, who had been an officer of the Law, who had been working on the recent terrorist cases, ran afoul of the main cell’s its inner circle, and so had needed to take his family into hiding. Tragically they were tracked down and said terrorist had blown up the cottage, killing Petunia’s sister and brother-in-law. The _poor_ babe had survived due to Lily bodily protecting him but had been hit in the head with debris. The family doctor, one of Vernon’s old schoolmates, had ‘diagnosed’ head trauma, easy with the facial scaring, and high possibility of future mental trouble.

The ladies of the town had lapped it up. The wonderfully tragic story pulling on their shriveled little heartstrings as they looked with pity on the babe, and lauded Petunia with condolences and comments on her generosity and her wealth of character for taking the poor thing in.

And so a number of unshakable truths became known in Little Whinging, Surrey.

Petunia couldn’t look at the boy without seeing her ‘dear’ dead sister.

The boy’s trauma forced a firmer hand to deal with him.

The plethora of outdoor chores where to force him to go out and get fresh air, which was needed for his health.

Little Harry felt more secure and safe in small spaces, so of ** _course_** the Dursleys humored him.

Harry often spoke of things out of context. A four year old couldn’t cook, he must have helped fetch ingredients or made a peanut butter sandwich.

Harry couldn’t stand tight fitting clothes, due to his health condition, and weren’t boys just **_so_** hard on their clothes.

The boy was so ** _clumsy_** , his internal balance was off, and got hurt **_soo_** very often.

And so continued the blissful ignorance of the town. Petunia was looked upon as a Saint, while little Harry was politely ignored or looked upon with pity. He was such a nice boy after all—always greeting the passerby’s, offering to help his aunt, and wasn’t that just a testament to her ability as a mother!

_Only those who lived in #4 Privet Drive knew the truth._

Petunia hated looking at Harry, because of her own jealous and spiteful heart.

Harsh words and hands were used to teach him his place in life, less then human.

Chores completed by Harry if done right had an almost magical effect on the house and lawn.

The Dursley’s saw no need to give the boy more space in their life or house then absolutely necessary.

Harry only got the left overs and hand-me-downs of his cousin.

Petunia was no ‘Saint’.

And so four years passed with no one the wiser. Petunia held Harry back a grade, because she claimed that he just wasn’t ready. Pushed her son to do at least middling average in his schoolwork, and ‘prepped’ poor ‘touched in the head’ Harry on the basics for the next year. Of course this was all calculated. Her son’s lackluster performance would be seen as the result of the ‘extra’ time spent on his cousin, and so Harry’s coming success a tribute to her ‘hard work’ and family’s sacrifice. Oh she just knew that boy was going to be as naturally brilliant as her sister, and hell if she wasn’t going to take the credit for it.

She could see her end game already. Its’ coming in the rise and fall of the stock market, as she had invested all the monies allotted for the Boy’s upkeep. Just a few more years she told herself as she drank her tea while watching the little Freak weed the garden, just a few years more.

 


	3. Chapter 3:  Murder She Wrote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be a good deal of bashing, or rather villainizing of several canon ‘good guys’ but expect motives, POV, and general character building. Also heads up I just counted the chapter titles I’ve organized to mark my plot and there is about 140 chapters planed, and that’s not even with the Extra POV’s and I’m missing half the chapters latter on, soo Stay with me for the ride?  
> This chapter was the bane of my existence. I rewrote Chapter 3 several times. I almost just gave up on in, but I really needed to establish Harry’s character before we got full swing into the tale. Finally figured out that part of the issue was the original plan I has for the chapter didn’t leave the paper trails and connects Petunia needed for later on. So while not the most exciting chapter, it’s needed. Le~sigh

[Physiatrist, murder and ghosts oh my!!]

Harry, for as long as he has resided at #4, understood that he didn’t belong there, that his being there wasn’t Right. Of course, his understanding didn’t start out as knowing, just the certainty of a young babe, just shy of being a true toddler who could sense the lack of family and warmth that had always surrounded him. The absence of mum with the bright red hair and greengreen eyes and the endless cuddles and kisses; of dada Prongs with the messy hair, quick laughter, bringer of _joyjoyjoy_ and smoothing voice. Of Padfoo, smelling of dog and fun and safety. Of Moony sadness and something that pulled at his chest, longing? Who read to him and scolded prongs and Padfoo. But they were gone, laughter and joy turned to yells, and screams and that terrible scary **_greengreen_** light that was like mum eyes but **_wrongwrongwrong_**.

No, the warmth was gone. Gone to cold nights, lonely days, and dark, greedy, hateful stares. Rumbly tummies, and bad dreams with no comfort at the end. But Harry was a smart boy, mum always said so, and so he watched. He watched and he grew. He took what his aunt and uncle told him as not to be trusted. He asked questions of others he came in contact with, and sometimes he was punished for asking. But he noticed patterns. And so one Harry Potter came to accept several truths. The way he was treated was NOT right and NOT his fault, and apparently some of his more chatty friends, the ones that told him that what happened to him behind those closed doors weren’t right, the ones that lit up his cupboard at night and told him stories, comforted him as best they could after the nightmares woke him up or read to him from the abandoned and neglected books he took from Dudley. They couldn’t be seen. They followed him around, but his aunt and uncle could not see them, and so couldn’t take them away like they did everything else. Perhaps he thought, as Dudley went through his new school supplies that was why his family—no… relatives— called him freak. Because he could **_see_** what they did not.

They had always been there, yelling abuse at the living for ignoring them, bitterly or happily watching over loved ones. He’d learned early on not to stop and talk if he was around others, to keep his reactions as unnoticed as possible, mumbling under his breath to them even as the older ladies and gentlemen yell at him to straighten up and speak clearly while adults smiled sadly and children treated it like a great game of being sneaky.

His constant companions, as they came and faded away, they whispered stories both grand and mundane of their lives, answered the why’s and how’s he could never ask his relatives, taught him to read, to count, to think. Worldviews and insights he might have never encountered in the monotony that was Surrey. Those who weren’t mainly occupied with watching over living relatives never seemed to last longer than a month, coming into his life and then slowly fading away. He was inconsolable the first few times, scared that they were leaving him, before one of them reassured him that they were just moving on to the next great adventure, and that it was a good thing for them.

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As soon as Harry turned five, and Dudley was shipped off to school each morning, Petunia had him seeing a physiatrist in a small office in London. That she chose a physiatrist who was an old schoolmate of her husband who in addition to being a horrible womanizer, had a gambling problem was more by design then chance. Oh no, Dr. Smith was more than happy to help Mrs. Dursely, expertly crafting files and interviews supporting the Dursley’s claims of little Harry’s mental instability. Not that Harry really helped support any view to the contrary in his case. No, at five he still had hope in the trustworthiness and authority of living adults whom where NOT his relatives, so when told that he could tell Dr. Smith everything, everything did he tell.

The results of which created a perfect case file of an unstable child. When Harry told him about his home life and his mistreatment by his caretakers, Dr. Smith put down that he was paranoid and disconnected from reality. When Harry told him about the instances when weird and unexpected happened around him, unknowing they were the results of accidental magic, it was written down as delusional. The final nail on the preverbal coffin came when Harry turned six, and confided to Dr. Smith that he could see and talk to dead people that no one else could see. The Doctor gleefully wrote him off as utterly insane with a hyper-focus on death, and took his bonus from Mrs. Dursley with the promise to write the proper recommendations for the boy when she wanted them.

To that, Petunia just smiled, which sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, nothing ever good ever came from Aunt Petunia smiling when it had something to do with him. Once they arrived back at #4, she patted him on the head before then administering a sharp slap to the back of it while ordering him to the kitchen to make dinner.

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And so a year came and went, Harry and Dudley turned six and Harry started his 1st year in primary school, while Dud started in on his second. True to Petunia’s expectations, Harry was lauded as the smartest child in his class, while her Dudders floated around average. But for all his genius, Harry was the social outcast at school, too otherworldly in appearance and behavior, eyes that held a hunted air yet seemed to see beyond the physical world. Added to his well-known status as mentally unstable, children avoided him with little encouragement by their parents, and the teachers generally didn’t know how to treat him, unnerved as they were with his combined genius and possible madness.

With the boys both out of her hair, Petunia first made it her mission to sniff out the mole in the neighborhood that she was sure _they-freaks allof them-_ had left to watch her family. She had her suspicions of course. There was a Mrs. Mary Sue Tippens down the road, who was firmly stuck in her own world, which was some twenty year in the past. Wearing _tie-dye_ clothes and pandering questionable herbal health tea and tinctures, turning her perfectly good English garden into an overgrown herb and vegetable plot and **smoking**. Thank Heavens the neighborhood association had banned her from obtaining a goat or chickens like she had been planning on. Honestly the woman was a menace to the neighborhood!

Then there was old Mrs. Figgs. Tippens would have been her sure bet, had it not been for the chowder of cats that looks alarmingly like the kittens she had begged her parents for the first time they took Lily to that Diagonally Ally or whatever it was called! No, Mrs. Figgs was the more likely of the two, especially considering her many offers of watching Harry for her, not both of the boys, just Harry. So with snooping on her mind, Petunia finally designed to accept her invite to tea.

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Mrs. Arabella Figg was quite beside herself with glee. After years of turned down babysitting offers and her insincere yet earnest offers of friendship toward the Dursley family in order to have greater access to the young Potter per her orders from Dumbledore, it seemed Petunia had finally accepted.  Not that Arabella held it against the poor dear, raising two boys, not to mention one with magic in his blood and such a tragic beginning would be overwhelming for anyone! Old Minerva must have been over reacting when she had told her that the Dursley’s were the worst sort of people. Ridicules! Arabella had kept a close eye and ear on the model family and had yet to find fault with them.

Arabella did wish that she had been allowed an owl in order to keep up with her few remaining connections, she couldn’t even get into the Leaky Cauldron anymore since the Ministry set up new wards there making it harder for squibs like her to enter without a wizarding escort.  Frustrating as the lack of information and connections to the other side as it maybe, she couldn’t risk it. Petunia Evens had been too well informed by her sister of the magical world, and was nothing if not observant. No she was to keep watch, keep quiet and only use the panic button she was gifted upon assignment in the case of a true emergency. Albus trusted her, trusted her skills, needed HER and that warmed her frail old heart. Deep cover in the suburbs was nothing. She had gone undercover on the muggle side of the last Great War as a young women, squib or not, with nothing but her wits and her cats. Compared to running an intelligence gathering ring under the rule of one Gellert Grindelwald and his compatriot Hitler back in the Second Great War, watching the Potter boy, and maintaining a patrol boarder around the town for outside magic was, while still her cup of tea, was comparably a pleasant retirement.

So on one brisk day in late October, Arabella made sure that any and all magic artifacts were concealed from the casual muggle observer and sashayed to open the door to invite in her guest. She had socializing to do.

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It only took three visits full of cats, teas, and garden talk for Petunia to confirm that yes, Arabella Figg was a… was it squid? What utterly stupid terminology, regardless she was one of those magic barren **freaks**. Really did those people have cabbages for brains? The house certainly smelt like it. _Normal_ people didn’t use cauldron to cook their soup on a gas stove! _Normal people_ didn’t have moving pictures of cats in the albums that they didn’t offer to show their guests! _Normal, respectable people_ did **NOT** have large cookbooks with title including the word POTIONS in it!!! Granted she was sure that she only caught the last one because of the charm Lily had given her to help see past _freakish_ trickery, one of the few gifts Petunia didn’t throw back in her face purely because of the benefits of being able to see though the _lies._

It didn’t matter. She had her mole, and now she had to figure out how to get rid of the rodent problem. Thank Goodness she had been shipped Lily’s old trunk a few weeks after her death, there was sure to be something in there that could help.

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It occurred on a frightfully cold morning in early November. As promised by the weatherman a flash freeze had hit Little Whinging the night before, though ice was a practically no concern due to the lack of recent moisture. Thus it was to the surprise of many that several front porches on the neighboring street of Wisteria Walk featured a patch of ice as well as the morning milk and paper. What was later dismissed as a harmless prank by local youth lead to the fall and injury of two residents, a Mr. Branson and one Mrs. Arabella Figg. The Ladies club jumped at the opportunity and while Mr. and Mrs. Branson received several casseroles and offers of help around the house, it was Mrs. Figg and her twisted ankle that was the overwhelmed beneficiary of several daily visits, grocery deliveries and assistance around her home. Petunia herself offered to come over and make tea and visit daily and so a dazed Arabella walked her though the brewing of her personal medicinal tea.

A routine was well established up until mid-December, when the Dursley family left to tag along with Vernon on a business trip to France and stay there for the holidays. After much fussing on Petunia’s part, Mrs. Figg assured her that she would be just fine on her own and that another neighbor would come check on her every few days. Appeased Petunia fetched one last post of tea before leaving with the promise to come and tell Arabella all about the trip when they got back. It was two days after the first check in by Mrs. Figgs next door neighbor that Arabella died in her sleep.

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It was a solemn funeral well attended by the majority of the neighborhood due to the known lack of living family. Some had hoped that the death announcement in the greater London paper would draw in some of her further off friends to the last goodbye, as no one seemed to know how to contact them, but atlas twas not to be. It was all thought to be quite tragic that the eccentric old women had snuffed the mortal coil just when her ankle had been on the mend.

The Dursleys had not been able to return from their trip in time for the funeral, but Petunia made up for it by buying an elaborate wreath made with sprigs of aconite* for Mrs. Figgs resting place. And so with great to do, properly attired in morning black she went to pay her last respects. Standing over the grave she whispered to the headstone “The dead tell no tales,” before giggling and walking away with a weight off her mind and a spring in her step, leaving behind a confused and worried specter, who, thanks to the blood wards keeping away any and all outside magic signature (of which she still held from being a squib in life) would be unable to contact even little Harry.

Not to let the death of a “dear” friend get her down and ever the paragon of the charity, Petunia took to volunteering at several London orphanages that spring, with the intent to find another child with similar enough features and age range as her nephew. She never liked her sister’s husband. A freak he was, and not even a proper full-blooded British one either! He had to have some sort of heathen blood back from the British Raj (British Empire rule of India) within the last generation or so, and dash it all if it didn’t make it harder to find a brat with green eyes and caramel complexion!! Ideally she wanted to find one with his own mental issues, Lord knows that orphanages were breeding grounds for those. To her joy, she found the perfect boy in one of the poorer institutions where it was quite common for the young adolescences to run off at some point and completely fall off the grid. It took a little bit of work to get a hold of a copy the child’s, one Leo Mancer, files. However she prevailed, and started to work up a positive rapport with the boy on the sly. Petunia began to slip the boy a batch of chocolate and areca nut** cookies whenever she stopped by with the bi-monthly load of donations from several charitable groups, with strict instructions to him to keep them all to himself, and then she sat back and waited.

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Then came 1988, and the stocks reaped profit. The time of waiting and plotting was up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta~Da!! There you have it folks the Third Chapter and boy was it a pain But I made it! 5 PAGES!!  
>  For those who might have caught it or not in the story, Mrs. Figg was poisoned by way of aconite* in her special tea mix, while Leo is being exposed to areca nut. See below for the effects of both.  
> AND before the pitchforks come at me about making James both British and Indian, I have plans!! His parents were NOT Charuls and Dorea Potter but Fleamount Potter and a yet unnamed Lady from India.  
> Why? Because I can. That and I have plans and don’t want to describe him as being as pale as death, it’s overused and annoys me. I’m also thinking about making Hermione black, French or both.  
> *aconite/monkshood/wolfsbane, in addition to being a herb Snape uses to test the knowledge of dunderheads, can if consumed cause Heart palpitations and arrhythmias, hypotension, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, respiratory system paralysis, and death. Petunia added it to Mrs. Figgs dry medicinal tea stash which I’m taking authors sayso as being of strong enough flavor to cover up any taste. Probably spearmint, or orange.  
> **areca nut is a herb that can with consumption, lead to “deterioration of psychosis in patients with preexisting psychiatric disorders” among other things. Petunia is essentially trying to further effect a child who is disconnected from reality (insane) in order that it is a lifelong condition. Why, I’m sure some of you have figured out Petunia’s game, but that will be confirmed in the next chapters.   
> To be clear timewise  
> 1985-Harry starts seeing Dr. Smith  
> 1986-Petunia kills Mrs. Figg and begins to search the London orphanages for a lookalike  
> 1987- Petunia finds Lookalike and starts drugging him  
> 1988- Shit gets real


	4. Chapter 4: Uprooted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Or where Petunia has a better idea on how blood wards work then an old goat)

 

It was with great fanfare that on the morning of May 15, 1988 that Petunia announced that she was pregnant, causing Dudley to sputter, Harry to stare at her in shock, and to the astonishment of both the boys and the giggles of the sole female in the house (which was terrifying in itself), caused one Vernon Dursley to faint right out of his chair.  Once Vernon was roused from both his episode and an hour of general shock which had him altering from a fish face of disbelief to positively beaming with pride, which had Harry running to lock himself in his room. Giggling? Fainting? Obviously some sort of catastrophe was eminent for his Aunt and Uncle to be acting so out of character… He wasn’t necessarily wrong.

In short order it was decided that their home on Privet Drive was inadequate to hold their growing family. Sure they had rooms for each of the boys and a guest room for Marge’s visits, but they couldn’t just transform the guest room into a nursery! No they needed a guest room, and the boys simply couldn’t share a room. It wouldn’t DO for the freak to infect their soon-to-be oldest child. Or heaven forbid the little angel that was on the way. Within the week they were talking to the realtors about putting the house on the market and setting down the requirements that they needed for their new home. Closer to Vernon’s work definitely, larger yard 5 bedroom, or at least 4 bedroom with a decent attic they could convert part of, ideally with sun room and/or wine cellar. Riding home from the doctor’s office Petunia held her husbands unoccupied hand, smiling softly at him as she immersed herself into her memories.

_Petunia stared at the object in her hand. She had be overdue for a cycle by a little over a month and had for the last two days been horribly sick in the wee hours before daybreak. Three tests and she still didn’t believe the result, Petunia called up the family health practitioner and scheduled the next available appointment. The results were the same. After almost eight years of trying, despite being told that it was not possible after birthing Dudley, she was pregnant! A miracle! The higher power’s reward for dealing with all the freakishness in her life! She didn’t know nor did she care! She just sat in her car and cried tears of joy, this was HER year._

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It was a few days from when the house went onto the market that the housewives of the neighborhood gathered for tea and gossip, or rather gossip under the cover of tea time. It took less than five minutes after they all settled in that lady of #10 honed in on Petunia with a glint in her eye.

 “Petunia darling! What are you up to these days? You are positively glowing. Is it a new diet? Facial product? Do tell!” she simpered. At once all the ladies quieted and turned their attention on her like sharks on blood.

Petunia basking and preening under the attention giggled like a school girl befor brightening and announcing to all and sundry “I just found out that I’m pregnant with my second child! Vernon wants us to move closer to London so that he can get home earlier to help out and it’s all so exciting.” She let the cries of “I knew it!”, “Congratulations!” and “We must have a baby shower!” wash over her, answering as best she could on the due date “Sometime in early February”, the realtor office they were using, how Dudley was taking it and so on.

As the gaggle started to trail off on that vain of conversation she wilted and let out a small sigh, causing the group to snap their focus back on her, because what would cause a woman with so much going for her at the moment to slip from joy to near depression so quickly. There was a story here! And so Petunia again had an eager audience.

“It’s just…. Harry…( _sigh_ ) they want to put him away. In a sanitarium. I just can’t… he needs more than me now and with the baby on the way….” Petunia stuttered out, before hiding her face in her hands and letting out a loud sob.

“Oh dear, the hormones are already affecting me.” She laughed lightly between the sobs. “It’s been a long time coming, and it’s for the best, I just can’t but help that I’m somehow letting my baby sister down by sending him away.”

“No, no. You have done your best by him, and it’s time to let him go. You have your family to look after and it’d be kinder to let him go where he can get all the help he needs and you can focus on your family and home. That way you don’t run yourself to the ground trying to split yourself between two full time tasks.” Hushed one of the older ladies as the others nodded sagely along.

Petunia let out a weak smile, and they returned to the small time gossip of fashion, and gardens, and planning the eventual baby shower until it was time to wrap up. When she entered home she leaned against the front door and giggled then crackled.

 

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It was the beginning of July that Petunia all but ordered her husband to take their son on a weeklong father-son fishing trip, to strengthen the bond before the babe came. The house was to be shown that week and to make sure that everything remained picture perfect she had decided that the entire family be absent from the property. The weeks prior had her nephew cleaning the house from the attic to the mudroom, and packing away the family valuables under her careful eye. It was a great deal more then she normally would have given the boy, but being pregnant and all gave her the perfect reasoning to let him do it all.

While her boys went off on their bonding trip, Petunia and Harry headed into London in her new minivan packed up with more luggage then an adult and child would need for the week. She left the boy in the hotel room and drove into the poorer part of the city to an old run down park. The week before she had visited the orphanage for the last time and had told the young boy she had been cultivating to meet her at the park that evening. She knew he would show, just as he had showed for all the times before as she built up his trust and whittled down his sanity. Sure enough just shy of 5 till 11pm, a small scrawny boy with caramel skin, forest green eyes, and black hair floated into the park and moved to sit down next to her. She smiled at him, confirmed with the boy that no one had noticed his disappearance, and invited him to come sit in the back seat of the car while she fished out the cookies and strawberry milk she had brought for him, wasn’t he so special!

Little Leo was excited. He’d never had strawberry milk before, all the milk at the orphanage was powdery and watery tasting, but this, this was sweet, the sweetest he had ever had and he savored it even as the nice lady, Aunt Petunia she told him to call him, encouraged him to drink it all. He did in the end once he was promised another, but by that time sleep was heavy on his eyes and he quickly fell into drug induced slumber and dreamed of a soft bed and sweet milk and a woman humming softly.

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The next morning was a rush of activity as Harry was introduced and correspondingly traumatized with the experience of his (from his point of view at least) contently mood swinging aunt taking him on a shopping marathon for the first time in his young life. From picking up an assortment of canned and nonperishables as well as cleaning products from several corner shops to stopping into two different thrift shops to pick up a substantial pile of clothes and shoes for all seasons that would be sure to last Harry, for none of the articles would fit Dudley, several years. Bolstered by the apparent generosity, Harry begged for some of the more jeweled colored bright shirts, eyeing the bright orange and green in particular, and in the end a pair of shirts in those colors made it into the basket. The greatest surprise thou was when Petunia purchased two pairs of perception glasses. One wired rimed and fragile looking, the other sturdy and flexible with, as advertised, shatterproof glass. He wasn’t sure what was happening at that point, and given the past behavior of his hot n cold again Aunt, felt an ominous sense of dread in the back of his gut.

It was late in the afternoon by the time Petunia determined that she was done, and so after having Harry load up the back seat while she secured her baggage in the boot, they headed out of London, north towards the Midlands. It was a silent ride except for the occasional humming and giggling from the driver. No word was given and no question was asked about their final destinations, but it hung heavy in the air. It wasn’t till just over three hours into their silent vigil though the county side, that Petunia pulled off into the small but dreary town of Cokeworth, and checked them into the Railview Hotel for the next few nights that Harry knew they had arrived.

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It felt odd to Petunia, to be a visitor in her own hometown. It was the first time she’d set foot here after vowing to never again at her parents funeral. She didn’t like it, she hated being reminded of her oh so humble beginnings. Of hard times, of doing without, of her family whole and happy, before her baby sister was stolen away from her and corrupted, and her parents bewitched. Vernon had been her ticket away from this… this hole in the ground town with its mills and its ash coked air. Even looking out of the window of the rented hotel room she could see the filth that littered the town. The once bustling train yard that brought in work and took away the finished goods from the mills was old and decrepit now, the river looked even dirtier than her memories of it, and she knew the old park where she and Lily played in as children was nothing but an empty lot now. How utterly depressing, and she hadn’t even begun what she was here to do.  Turing away from the dirty window, she glanced dispassionately at the two young boys laying on the second bed, both breathing softly in their drugged sleep, before she resumed packing away the days purchases.

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It was a distinctly unsettling feeling to wake up to your own sleeping face, and Harry would blame the shock as well as his hazy brain failing to process the boy in front of him for the kick that sent them both tumbling off the bed. Which elicited crying from his doppelganger and a rush of concern and hushing and cooing from his aunt. A situation that rightfully unsettled him because Aunt Petunia had never acted that way towards him and he would have sworn that the boy in her arms could have been his twin…. That was a thought. Did he have a TWIN??! Was that what this was all about?? Confused and unsettled he watched as Petunia rocked his twin and told him to fetch the strawberry milk from the small cooler in the corner, which he did before continuing to watch the boy drink it, and then fall back into a deep sleep. After she finished tucking the stranger into the bed, she motioned to the pile of luggage and shopping sacks in the corner and ordered a confused Harry to go pack them into the van.

This car ride was much more informative as Petunia drove around the town, pointing out this or that landmark telling Harry about the town she and his mother had grown up in. Anxious to learn anything about his parents, Harry pushed the matter of his twin back at the hotel away, and soaked up the wealth of information greedily. When he ventured to ask about the house they lived in all he got was, “Burnt down it was when my parents died, shame too, I was to inherit a good deal of furniture and jewelry. Lost, gone in the inferno.” was the bitter reply from Petunia, who was oh so willing to point out the lot though as they drove past it by. Eventual the meandering drive came to an end as Petunia turned into the local graveyard away from the town. Crawling down the overgrown path till there was no other option but to walk, she grabbed a few bags and motioned for Harry to do the same, before marching further in.

When she stopped in front of a medium sized mausoleum she waited until Harry caught up to her before she began to speak.

“This is the Evens family mausoleum. It has been the final resting place for our family for generations. We were here long before the trains and the mills were built, we worked this land, bleed on this land, served the lords of old that ruled here, and were buried in this land. For the services of our ancestors we were given our own mausoleum instead of a pauper’s grave and have ever since then returned here. You may be a Potter, and deserve a grave in a potter’s field for all that I care, but there has always been an Evens responsible for this plot and I have no desire to tie myself or my children here.” She turned to face Harry as she whispered, “Lily should have been buried here, not in some cold uncaring grave far away.”

“You will remain here with your blood family,” the lock opened to the key in her hand and the door groaned open;

 “You will work to preserve this house of the dead” bags dropped into the corner as Harry followed hesitantly into the building

“You will bleed” she all but tackled her nephew, holding him down firmly as she withdrew an old knife and proceeded to carve a line up his cheek, skimmed over his eye, and tore through the lightning bolt above his eye before she stood up.

“You will keep your freakishness here” she sneered before staking over to her large purse and pulled out a small green book, opening it to a pre-marked page and intoning with obvious distaste. “By the blood spilled I claim you as an Evens, blood of my sister’s blood unclaimed by his father’s. I, last of my generation, last of the line bind you to uphold our traditions and responsibilities. Congratulations Harrier James Evens, you are the new head of the Evens family. Make sure to gather the rest of the bags and the trunk from where the cars was parked, and don’t darken my doorstep again” The walls glow briefly as she dropped the book, grabbed her bag and exited. As she walked away with a smile on her face all she could hear was screaming.

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Petunia arrived back at the hotel with a lighter heart, no longer was she burdened with the shades of her past, no-sir she was walking on air. The little orphan was still fast asleep and just ready for the molding! She picked him up and carried him to the tub. Best get the unpleasantries done now while he was sleeping. The knife still slick with the freaks blood made quick work in carving an identical lightening scare on the boy’s forehead. Some clumsy stitching later and then all she had to do was spend the rest of the week forming him into exactly what she wanted. With the boy put away into a comfy sanatorium with the help from Dr. Smith she would be safe from scrutiny in both worlds. Those magical freaks couldn’t judge her, she made sure that the boy was living with blood, she followed her instruction to the T and besides it wasn’t like she had ever agreed to anything.

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In Scotland an old busybody noticed that several of his trinkets ceased to function, and wondered why it had taken so long. After all, blood wards were built on love, but perhaps the magnitude of Lily’s sacrifice took time to finally run out due to the lack of love of family. It mattered not. His tool was being kneaded with strife and toiles to prepare him for future molding.

Months later as Petunia held her beautiful perfect daughter in her arms, she vowed that nothing would take this away from her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was just going to have Petunia pretend to be pregnant, but then I thought why pass up on opportunities of future Karma? It might not have been part of her initial plan, but she is nothing if not adaptable. She would have been a Slytheran that Voldy would have loved to have as a follower.
> 
> As for why she doesn’t just send him to the loony bin or move before now, remember that she is being paranoid. She would have loved to have gotten rid of Harry as soon as he was left with her, but the warning of the blood wards and his likely return to them if they tried to get rid of him makes her plan. With all the records on the muggle side, and a living body in his place it’s a lot harder for anyone to force Harry back, because ‘Harry’ never left. She has effectively destroyed his ability to be official as Harry Potter in the non-magical world. This will cause issues for several people latter.
> 
> Villains do things to make themselves happy or to better themselves. If they aren’t happy with what they are doing, or what they are doing is causing them harm, they will fight to get what they want regardless of the cost to others. Petunia is dare I say happy in the chapter, because she is getting rid of what she sees as a treat to her family and the ideal life.
> 
> As far as Petunia doing “Magic” in this chapter to claim him to the Evans family. Im going to say that lily had something in her trunk that helped and as an old place of history to the family, the magic in Harry responded to her words.


	5. Chapter 5: Life goes on in the graveyard

 

It hurt. Like something was being torn out of him. What was his name again? Harry, Harrier, Potter…no not Potter anymore. Evans. Potter was what was torn out of him. His connection to his father’s family, the security in knowing that he was related to people, dead or alive, other than his Aunt, that even if he didn’t belong with his mother’s family, didn’t have their love, he had the heritage of his father to embrace. And now it was gone. In his almost eight year old heart he knew it. He couldn’t call himself Potter anymore. It felt…. Wrong. Like he lost the privilege he had been born with to that name. Gone… gone forevermore because of whatever Petunia had done. And for that he cried, screamed his defiance and loss to the echoing darkness that surrounded him. Knowing only at that moment what he had lost, and letting the grief of that loss, the loss of a promise to himself, of finding family with that last name, fill him until he could no longer bear it and lost himself to blissful oblivion.

It was numbness he woke up to. Emotional numbness, darkness and physical pain. He couldn’t open his right eye. The lids crusted over with dried and drying blood. His left took its time adjusting to the darkness around him, lit up by only dying light coming from the ajar door he had enter from. His first real impression of the place, for he had been much more focused on Petunia when he first entered, was dark, dank and musty. Rising and stumbling over to the bags in the corner where she had thrown them, Harry foraged though them till he found the ones that contained the items from the corner stores, where he knew Petunia had dragged him down the health care aisle, and with a cry of triumph fished out a box of band aids.

He needed to take care of his face, and while he didn’t think band aids were really the cure all, he figured that if he attempted to tape the large cut together it might buy him some more time. Besides, he had been knocked out for most of the day, and the sun was setting, he had no currently known light source and he could vaguely recall his aunt mentioning leaving the rest of the bags back where they’d left the car. He needed to go fetch them before anything else got to whatever precious resources he’d been left with.

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Harry returned back to the Evans moulsulem with his last heavy load just as the sun finished sinking below the horizon. The ‘bags’ had turned out to be boxes of canned, loose cleaning supplies, a trash bag full of who knows what and an old steamer trunk. He hadn’t ventured back into the building again since he had first stepped out of it, it was dark and unknown, and while Harry wasn’t scared of the dark persay, he had an active imagination, was off settled and decided that it’d be best to wait until morning to re-enter the place. And so grabbing a blanket from the top of one of the boxes, Harry wrapped himself up, settled down against the trunk he’d had to drag, and scanning the graveyard around him for zombies or the like, ignoring the silvery wisps that drifted by and let himself ponder the recent chain of events.

He honestly didn’t know where he was. Well, he knew it was close to Cokeworth, somewhere in the Midlands in the United Kingdoms, but he would have a hard time pointing that out on the map and it wasn’t Surry, wasn’t Little Winging, wasn’t Pivate Drive. He didn’t know the ins and outs, the back streets and yards, he could leave here and not be able to find his way back to his basecamp. Yes basecamp, he decided that was what he’d call the place for now, at least until he could figure what to do with his new predicament. He’d watched a documentary about climbing mountains once, they always set up a basecamp to retreat to if something went wrong, and it sounded right.

Next order of business, as his uncle would say, no not uncle anymore it felt wrong to call him that. The other boy, was… was he being replaced? If so, then no one would believe him if he said that he was himself!  He was the victim of identity theft that Vernon was so paranoid about! He couldn’t go back to being Harry Potter, not only did Aunt Petunia done something to steal away his last name, but even his own identity. Wait he’d seen his doppelganger! Was he going to die now!? He was panicking now, who was he then?

Right.

 Breath.

Harrier James Evans.

But with another Harry Potter impostor who was still with the Dursley’s, he couldn’t go back there. They’d accuse him of lying, of trying to steal his own identity, and didn’t Vernon say that people who did that ended up in prison! He didn’t want to be put in jail, and besides, by the time he’d be able to get back there they might be gone already. The Dursley’s where moving, but they’d never told him to where. Maybe it was a better idea to stay here. He wasn’t wanted there, they’d let him know that plenty of times.

 He wasn’t surprised that Petunia had just abandoned him. He had figured out that she was trying to get rid of him after he overhead her talking with the Doctor and after looking up the word sanatorium in the dictionary and then the library, and was scared that she’d lock him up. The orphanages sounded better then what the books told him about such places. Not that a graveyard was much better, as smart as he was he was still eight, but the camping gear and the warning against trying to go back made it obvious to him that she wanted him to live here. He knew she despised him, it was the thing with the knife that threw him. It seemed out of character to him, and it hurt more than just the cut on his face.

 

He tilted his head up and all thought left him. The sky, velvet black was filled with stars. Harry, no Harrier had never seen so many stars before and so, lost in awe of the sight above him, Harrier spent his first night in the graveyard immersed in the darkness that surrounded him as he watched the celestial bodies danced far above him.

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The morning dawned with dew and bird song as Harrier woke from a doze and blearily took in his surroundings. The edifices surrounding the historic resting place of the Evans lone were all of a similar state of neglect, veiled with vines and worn by time. What existed of a path, or rather the space between the mausoleums and tombs were overgrown and for all appearances hadn’t been used in the last decade. Such a stark contrast to the manicured lawns and ordered houses of Piviat Drive that one could, as Harrier had known little else, be convinced that it belonged to another time and place entirely.

His pondering had led to several decisions as he spent the night stargazing, some of which didn’t make much sense but were backed none the less by a gut feeling of rightness. Aunt Petunia had said that this was to be his home, so a home he would make of it. With that conviction set firmly into his heart, Harrier set about spreading the two blankets he had found in one of the boxes over the tall grass in front of his new home and proceeded to weigh down the corners with a box each to attempt to make the blanket surface flat. First things first, he needed to know what he had and find a better way to deal with the gash on his face.

Gathering up the bags from inside the mausoleum and dumping the contents onto one of the blankets, Harrier then turned to the boxes, suitcase and trunk he had dragged there last night. In less than twenty minutes he had a survival book, an old and bloodstained reader on battlefront first aid, a well-stocked sewing kit, bowl of water and a mirror propped up around him.  He couldn’t find any matches to sanitize the needle or boil the water, but if he went looking for dry sticks to start a fire he’d just get more dirt in the wound, so it would have to do. Watching himself in the mirror Harrier carefully pulled off each of the band aids, took a cloth rag and washed off the dried and tacky blood and dirt from his face. As fresh blood began to bubble up from the cleaned cut, Harrier took his threaded needle and began the slow and painful task of sewing himself up.

Once finished, he decided that he look much like Frankenstien, or at least the Frankenstien that Dudley’s friend Pier had dressed up as for Halloween of last year. Of course that illusion was quickly shattered as he began wrapping a roll of bandages he’d found in the trunk around his face to cover up the childish stitch job, and protect the wound from dirt and germs like the reader told him to. Now he looked like a mummy. Oh! A mummy in a graveyard, the thought sent him convulsing with giggles.

Right, so with that done, next was taking inventory and organizing all his new belongings. Or maybe he should open up the doors to the building to let it air out while he did that. Yes that sounded like a grand idea. Harrier slipped behind the door and after much struggle managed to push it all the way open, letting sunlight and fresh air into the previously stagnate darkness. Please with the accomplishment, he turned back to the pile of boxes, bags and whatnot. Time to see what Petunia had left with him.

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It was honestly more than he had expected.

Food wise, well, he had a LOT of crackers, what looked like a hundred plus cans of various fruit and veggies, a bag of potatoes, several jars of peanut butter and several cases of ravioli and spegettios. Absolutely no verity, but enough that along with several bottles of vitamins, should last him at least a year, maybe a bit more. Well it would if she had left him a can opener, but she hadn’t, so at the moment really, he was only able to eat were the crackers and peanut butter.

The trash bag and a few of the boxes held a treasure trove of tools and equipment. Vernon’s old camping gear that he’d replaced only a week earlier was all there, sans tent. A large sleeping bag, a tarp, oil lantern and two bottles of oil, a flint and rusted steel fire starter, a water kettle and metal camping dishes, rope and a small grill. Those coupled with the two extra wool blankets, the first aid kit he was able to fill with the items from the bags he’d emptied, sewing kit and a thick yoga mat would make living there much easier. As would the old rusted pliers, hammer, plastic bucket and hatchet. The broom, mop, rake, and pruners would make cleaning up the place easier, but he wished that more soap had been included.

Clothes, only about half of what had been bought in London two days ago had been left. The green and orange shirts that he’d begged so hard for mockingly missing from the pile. Greys, browns and black sturdy canvas, cotton and wool shirts, jackets, and pants in sizes too big to fit his slight frame. Several packets of socks and underwear shoved into a bag alongside scarfs and hats and gloves. Two pair of boots several sizes apart. A heavy wool coat. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about running around naked when he outgrew or outwore what he was currently wearing.

The trunk was what had him stumped though. It was full of books and a rather strange collection of junk. He thought it might have belonged to his mother, as most of the books had her name written inside of the covers, but the titles were…odd. It was those books and the one that Petunia had pulled out after she had stabbed him in the face and then discarded that made him suspect that made him have to reconsider that the supernatural world might just exist beyond the shades that he could see and interact with. Because really, while astrology, history and herbology might be understandable Uni classes for an aspiring med student, he was sure that potions, transfiguration and charms and magic had nothing to do with it. Something to consider later, but for now he had other things to focus on, such as the fact that the current bout of good weather would eventually come to an end.

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It took several minutes of pulling, pushing and swearing with words Vernon had used and Petunia would have soaped his mouth for before he had the old iron doors of the mausoleum swung wide, and could, with the light of day, get a proper look about his new home. Dust mots floated lazily in the column of light, while the fresh breeze stirred up year of dirt and debris, and chased stagnate, stale air out. Cobwebs danced from the ceiling and dried leaves rattled from the corners. In the back of the room stairs down to the crypt hid in shadow, while shelves of urns covered the walls. Echoes of the long past joined those of his own footsteps as he wondered about, the past and present meeting and meshing in an odd harmony.

After taking in his surroundings, Harriers first inclination was to grab his cleaning supplies and sweep, dust and scrub his new abode till it meet the standards that had been beaten into him at #4. In the end it was the shortage of available water outside of a few bottles in his food pile that redirected his priority to finding and securing a water source. Remembering advice from his survival book, Harrier grabbed his plastic bucket, rope and hatchet and set off in the opposite direction from where Petunia had brought him in from. It was time for an adventure.

By the time he had found an old covered well in the shadow of an old chapel, he had encountered no less than ten of his ghostly new neighbors, some waved back at him, a few whispered helps, some ignored him entirely, and one playful ghostly child had run up to him and chattered his ear off, begging him to play. All and all, it was a much more pleasant and welcoming then Little Wingings had even been. The well itself lacked the necessary rope and bucket, but Harrier had that covered, and so drew up water and, saying farewell to his new friend, totted it back to his basecamp.

With a water source found, Harrier took up the broom, marched into the mausoleum and attacked the ceiling, knocking down the dust and cobwebs that had accumulated up there before fleeing the building and the rain of dust he had created and waited for it to settle while he read a chapter his survival handbook. Half an hour later he was back in, sweeping the dust, dirt, leaves and trash out the door and down the steps. Dusting of the shelves and urns was quickly followed by scrubbing of just about everything within Harrier’s eight year old reach. By evening Harrier was satisfied that it was as clean as it was going to get for the moment, he began to move his pile of supplies indoors as he kept an eye on the sky. Dark cloud had been gathering on the horizon for the better part of the evening, and the threat of a storm hung heavy in the air. The rain started pouring down just as he had left the shelter to grab the last thing left outside, the old steamer trunk. By the time Harrier had managed to drag it inside, he was sopping wet. After closing the doors till they were just barely ajar, Harrier stripped out of his wet clothes and curled up into a nest of blankets, letting the sounds of the storm raging outside lull him to sleep.

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When Harrier woke the deluge outside hadn’t ceased. So after setting his bucket outside the door to collect rainwater, he fumbled around in the meager light that came through the entrance to find the oil lamp and fire starter. After several strikes the room lit up the single flame casting dark shadow all around the tomb. Yesterday’s cleaning spree had done much to improve the room, removing years of dirt and grime, all that was left was to put away his new trove of belongings. Food soon found itself next to urns on higher shelves to keep it safe and dry, clothes, camping supplies and the uncovered bounty of school primers for the next several levels found their own piles or shelves. The yoga mat, sleeping bag and blankets where set up in the corner and the old trunk used to hid his bed from the entrance.

Stratified with his work, Harrier grabbed one of his new books on survival and first aid and curled up next to his lamp. Exploring could wait. He needed to know how to survive.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop the Pitchforks!!! Okay so I tend to hate the way to mature for his age Harry stories, and I thought, mmm I want to make sure that Harry is a believable mature 8yr old left alone which basic survival skills. So what do I do? I take my 9yr old brother outside draw on him with red marker and tell him he’s bleeding, and throw a few of the things I said that Harrier now has available to him and tell him what he needs to survive. With the promise of cookies and video games as a reward. I then light a small patio fire, sit back with a bottle of hard cider and s’more supplies and watch his reaction. I am the best sister ever and it was funny.
> 
> On the other hand my other sibs range from 11 to 15 so I have all sorts of references to proper age behavior, so Ha.
> 
> As for why I picked Harrier as Harry’s full name instead of Harrison or just Harry, Harrier is defined as a person who or thing that harasses, or ravages (as in war) and given some of the things I have planned, is appropriate. That and I just didn’t have the heart to completely change it like some other authors. I’ve already changed his last name, I figured I’d let him keep his first. Just make it cooler. As to why I didn’t use a flower or plant name, I saw that as more of a female tradition, Duddley is apparently plant related, and I want to keep him connected to his past, renaming him completely like that to me seems more like a rebirth of being, and essentially making an OC out of the character. He’ll act out of character because of his experiences in life, but he is still Harry….ish
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective authors. So does the general canon outline up to the point where I decide to deviate until I rubber band back. Expect tangent storylines. Ta!!


	6. Ghost of the Materfamilias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do not fear the ghosts in this house; they are the least of your worries.” -Neil Gaiman

The darkness taunted him, tugged on the corner of his sight, fluttered and whispered in his ear. He ignored it. Really he did. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, They made sure of that. And he wasn’t afraid of ghosts either. Warry of them yes, not all of those he met were exactly nice.  
But still.  
The stairwell in the back of the mausoleum mocked him.  
He wasn’t afraid.

 

Really!

  
He also wasn’t fooling himself.

  
He was deathly afraid.

  
The graveyard was spotted with ghosts of different ages from different ages, but…  
The entrance of the building was suspiciously empty, but it was a grave too.

  
A silent grave.

  
Except for the giggling he could here echoing up the stairs.

 

His family was waiting for him, the dead ones that was. Honestly, Harry wasn’t sure what to think about that. The living had been less the pleasant, but on the other hand, it was family, the one thing he had always wanted, the thing he had been constantly denied with the Dursleys.

  
But they were dead.

  
But they were THERE.

  
It was hope that made him afraid.  
Hope was a dangerous thing. It had always lead to disappointment.  
So he did the only thing he could, ignore it and hope it’d go away.

  
Too bad his relatives got tired of waiting.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super sort chapter. But when I tried to and more I just wasn't happy with it. I may eventually add on a short story about the meeting of past and present, but for now I'll leave it up to the imagination. I already have a number of OCs in the coming chapters, I just couldn't make any more at this point in time.


End file.
